


all hues in his controlling

by MercutioLives



Series: Sonnet XX [2]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Sexual Situations, Coming Out, First Time, Friendship, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trans Character, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"When Mercutio first explains himself to Romeo, there stands between them a long silence, swollen with incomprehension."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	all hues in his controlling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privatesnarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/gifts).



> A coda to [with nature's own hand painted](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2263806) that takes place in the years between the ending of Mercutio and Tybalt's friendship and their reconciliation. It was requested of me that I detail what exactly happened between Mercutio and Romeo in those years. Unbeta'd, but I think it's okay.
> 
> I warned for underage sex to be on the safe side, although given the time period, I'm pretty sure fifteen/sixteen and seventeen don't technically count as "underage". YMMV.

When Mercutio first explains himself to Romeo, there stands between them a long silence, swollen with incomprehension. Mercutio is careful to watch Romeo's eyes, the confusion swirling in their brown depths. With his own, he dares his friend to say something, to question him or reject him or laugh at what he assumes is a great jest. But there's nothing said aloud for a goodly stretch of time, and that in itself seems answer enough. (He's reminded for a brief, painful moment of damning silence from other lips.) He turns to go, but Romeo's warm hand closes around his wrist – gently, cautiously. There is in Romeo's eyes a look of pleading apology that makes Mercutio think of a dog that's been scolded, and before he can even think to stop himself, he tips back his head and laughs. It isn't mocking laughter, but full of relief and _joy:_ joy he has not felt in many months.

"I still don't quite understand," Romeo murmurs at length, the beginnings of a smile curling on his lips, "but I suppose that's true for many things. Truly, my friend, I – I never would have guessed. You look – that is, it's rather extraordinary how you've managed it. Do many people know?" As he goes on, his expression becomes one of bright-eyed wonder. Mercutio grins, pleased beyond the telling of it that he hasn't been repudiated out of hand, and not only this, but that Romeo seems to find it not disturbing but _fascinating_. As if Mercutio has shown him the secret behind some sleight-of-hand trick he couldn't puzzle out for himself. In a way, he supposes he has, for he has lived within the bubble of a carefully-crafted illusion these past few years. He hefts himself up to sit upon the sill of Romeo's bedroom window, never taking his eyes from his friend.

"A good number, I suppose," he answers. "Anyone who's known me from a child, certainly. But few who have met me more recently can suspect that anything's amiss, and I do prefer it that way. Usually." He continues to watch Romeo, trying to read the thoughts that form in his brain as they pass over his face: the young Montague isn't particularly skilled at concealing his mind, not like Mercutio himself or – certain others. His honesty is absolute, and it's strange, but refreshing in its way. Even though there's only a little more than a year between their respective ages, it feels like a great chasm exists within that small amount of time. Cynicism and discouragement have not yet touched Romeo: it sets him apart from all the rest, makes him special in a way that Mercutio can't hope to comprehend. Watching him now, Mercutio is trapped between wanting to preserve that innocence, and wanting to be the one to finally break it: to consume and possess it to such a degree that Romeo has no choice but to be his forever. The thought is as revolting as it is tempting, and he pushes it from his mind before he can even consider acting upon it. Romeo's face adopts a look of contemplation, which draws Mercutio back to the moment.

"If that's so, why did you tell me? Surely, it would have been easier for you if I was ignorant of – well, of the truth?" The question, like so much of Romeo, is disarming in its frankness. He has to consider it deeply before he can even come near to an answer, though that answer is not one he suspects that Romeo will like. Feigning nonchalance, Mercutio swings his long legs back and forth; in the end, he simply shrugs.

"Does it matter? Has the knowledge altered your perception of me?" For a long, hard moment, Mercutio lets a little of his fear seep into his gaze; it has the desired effect, for Romeo shakes his head vigourously, dark hair flying.

"No! No, of course not." Again, Mercutio allows laughter to spill forth from his lips, and when he hops down from the window sill, he pulls Romeo into a firm embrace that's equal parts affection and brotherly teasing. Though they have only been acquainted for a few months, Romeo has become as much a brother to him as Valentine, his sibling by blood: it's gradually helped him to cease comparing their friendship to one that's fallen through the cracks, one that Mercutio certainly did _not_ count as brotherhood. Even so, there's a vein of similarity that he assiduously avoids considering: if Romeo is to be his brother, he must let go of this thought that plagues him. Yet he can't banish it completely, for Romeo looks ever so fetching with that flush high in his cheeks. For the first time, he finds that he's slightly self-conscious, wondering if his friend can feel the very slight curve of bound breasts against his body, and if he can, what he thinks of it. There's an unspoken change in the air around them, as if the same thought has occurred to both of them simultaneously, and they part. The silence has returned, and they opt to drown it in wine.

\- - - -

Despite the spectacular catastrophe that was his sixteenth birthday, Mercutio has succeeded in fending off his uncle's attempts to have him wed. He's been forced to suffer frocks and dinners and clumsy courtships, doing his utmost to sabotage each and every effort. By the week of his turning seventeen, all but one of these has been sent running to the hills: all but one has been convinced that the Prince's "niece" is broken beyond fixing, and therefore unfit to take to wife. Each failed suit is met with raucous laughter and elation at his success; he very pointedly does not think of the first, and the memories that come with it. This new lord his uncle wishes to bind him to, some boor from Savona who seems willing to take Mercutio's _eccentricities_ in stride, only serves to remind him. He spends the days leading up to his birthday in a masquerade of womanhood, and the nights in a haze of drink. It takes a massive amount of strength – nearly more than he has – not to wrench his hand from the clumsy fist of his suitor. It takes every ounce of fortitude and will not to flinch each time he's called by a name that isn't his. He feels his uncle's eyes upon him, warning him, and he forces a smile that's all insincerity coated in sweetness.

When at last he's herded back to his rooms, he nearly trips himself to shed the hateful gown which confines his body into the wrong shape. Every inch of him is shaking, and he feels ready to vomit, as if by doing so he could purge the lie from his very core. Trembling now with revulsion, Mercutio casts about blindly for some way to drive away what he's certain is his doom. He touches upon a possibility that he nearly rejects out of hand, for he has tried it before, to disastrous effect – but in his desperation, he can see no other way. He dresses, pulling the linen too tightly across his chest until it hurts, and climbs from his bedroom window.

Mercutio knows the way to the Montague estate in the dark, could find it blindfolded; he only hopes that it isn't for naught. His breath comes short as he pulls himself up the creeping vines, scaling the wall until he reaches a familiar window, at which he raps a fist: it isn't the first time that he's come to see Romeo in the dead of night, so he isn't kept waiting long. In the faint glow of moonlight, Romeo can't see the tension in Mercutio's greeting smile, nor can he quite make out the look of desolation in his eyes – but he can hear it in every word that drops from Mercutio's lips, and in the half-mad laughter that spills out between them. It comes forth like a flood, without embellishment or jest, so much like it had been a year ago. Everything was repeating just so, threatening to drive Mercutio over the edge into insanity. It might have done, were it not for the gentle hands upon his shoulders, smoothing down his arms, clasping his hands. Tybalt (and even now, it hurts to think of him) had not been so patient with him, nor so kind; he knows that it was never in Tybalt's nature to be so. Perhaps it's cruel of him to compare Tybalt's nature to Romeo's, but just now, he can only think of how much better it is to be here, with Romeo's sweet voice easing him down from panicked heights.

Candles are lit, and a cup of wine is pushed into his hands as Romeo guides him to sit. The wine helps, and soon he's calm again, though the saw-toothed fear gnaws at him still. Romeo's company makes it easier to bear even so, at least for the moment, and as they begin to talk more casually, the evening does not seem quite so dire anymore. Soon, they're laughing and joking as they always do, and when Mercutio decides that it's time for him to return to his own bed, it's with a lighter heart. Perhaps he's a little drunk when he leans in and presses his wine-red mouth to Romeo's, and perhaps this makes it easier for him to laugh at the look of befuddlement on his friend's face as he slips back out the window.

Two days pass before anything is made of the night's happenings. Romeo approaches him, red-faced and shy as a maid, seemingly unable to look him in the eye.

"Might we speak?" he asks in so circumspect a manner that it makes Mercutio laugh. A wounded look crosses his face, and it appears that he wishes to raise his voice, but he does nothing of the kind. It's queer and discomfiting, and Mercutio's laughter ceases abruptly, for he's unaccustomed to this behaviour in his dear friend.

"Has something happened? Sweet Romeo, you worry me. Will you not look at me?" There's a beat or two of hesitation before Romeo does raise his eyes, and something in them sends a chill through Mercutio's entire body.

"I – I must confess something to you. Something I fear you will hate me for." Romeo's voice is small and wary; the chill deepens and intensifies into dread. He doesn't want to hear what it is Romeo has to say, but he finds he's rooted to the spot. He has no choice but to listen. "Two nights ago, when you came to me, when you told me that the Prince wishes you to marry – before you left, you – that is to say, I understand why you did it, but –"

"Stop," Mercutio cuts in, unable to bear it any further. "Please, you needn't say another word. Your meaning is clear; I shan't trouble you further with my company." He forces a smile, hard and glittering, though he can't manage to summon the cruelty with which he might protect his heart from this second denial. Before he's able to move away, Romeo reaches out, closing his fingers around his wrist just has he had the year prior when Mercutio explained the truth of himself. The look of confusion on the young Montague's face makes no sense to him; why should he look so puzzled to be understood?

"I don't want you to go. Please, if anything, it is I who should cease to trouble you. I meant to say that, when you kissed me, I fear I – enjoyed it rather more than I should have. That I should think of you in such a manner, as a man might think of a woman, is reprehensible. But I can't lie to you, Mercutio, my friend. I _have_."

Another silence trails out behind Romeo's words. The cold fear that gripped Mercutio by the heart abates by cautious degrees as meaning sinks in, replaced by a wide grin. Truly, Romeo's innocence is beyond reckoning. His laughter is warm and full, and Romeo stands before him in mute confusion; as it fades into soft, gasping giggles, Mercutio manages himself well enough to reply.

"You feared that I would hate you for enjoying my kiss? Oh, my dear, naïve Romeo, I could never hate such a thing. In faith, I had come to you in hopes that you might have me to bed. This suitor of mine, I cannot seem to be rid of him, and I have tried all manner of sabotages. All but one, you see. Yet, for all that, I couldn't bring myself to ask it of you." He does not say that he'd already asked it of another, and been denied. Romeo doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to know that his heart has ever followed someone else. He waits, smiling still as Romeo thinks on what he's said; it's only a little surprising when his friend leans forward to make his answer without words.

\- - - -

It's stranger than Mercutio thought it would be, to undress in front of Romeo. Romeo himself appears as though he isn't certain whether he should look or turn modestly away. When Mercutio teasingly asks him to help with his bindings, his eyes go wide and Mercutio doubles over with laughter until Romeo starts to whine at having been made fun of. This makes it easier, taking the edge from the atmosphere. Once he's fully naked, and Romeo likewise, he watches as his friend drinks in the sight of him, understanding for the first time the full extent of Mercutio's nature. Hesitantly, he reaches out to brush his fingers across Mercutio's skin: his shoulder, first, for he clearly fears that Mercutio will change his mind if he comes across too forward. In the end, it's Mercutio who takes Romeo's hand and presses it fully upon his own breast; Romeo's face and throat go bright red.

"It shan't hurt you," Mercutio chuckles indulgently, his hand still covering Romeo's. "You may touch me as you like, and I shall touch you as I like, and so forth." Thus reassured, Romeo nods and becomes more daring with his caresses. Mercutio returns them eagerly, with perhaps a bit more courage despite never having been with a man before. By and by, they explore one another thus, eventually growing comfortable enough that Mercutio presses Romeo backward onto the bed and positions himself above. He's more nervous than he would admit as he slowly lowers himself, gasping as his body is breached for the first time, watching Romeo's eyes grow large and his lips part. It feels strange – slightly uncomfortable, but not wholly unpleasant – and it takes a few long, strange minutes of adjustment before he begins to move.

Mercutio finds his rhythm, and as he rolls his hips in time to it, Romeo follows his lead. He does so perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, for it causes Mercutio to lose his balance and topple over, yelping in a manner most undignified. Confusion and surprise give way to hilarity, each of them laughing through their embarrassment as they rearrange themselves. (As they bicker back and forth, Mercutio wonders if the moment is ruined, though he suspects asking will surely make it so.) At length, they settle on inverting their positions, with Mercutio lying on his back and Romeo kneeling between his parted thighs. This yields more reliable – and pleasurable – results, they find, as it's easier for them both to move this way. They grasp at one another, touching and stroking and clinging as they find their way with one another. Faster and faster, they move, with heat and pressure and urgency building. A swell of pride blooms in Romeo's chest as he brings Mercutio to climax. There's a length of awkward stillness after, Romeo uncertain whether he should continue or if that's the end of it.

Mercutio watches as he silently debates asking; when he comes to no conclusion on his own, Mercutio parts their bodies slowly and takes Romeo into his own hand. It's strange at first, as so much of this has been, but as with everything else, he adjusts and it becomes easier as he goes. As Romeo felt proud to bring Mercutio to completion, the same sense of accomplishment takes hold of Mercutio when he returns the favour. It's quite a bit messier in Romeo's case, which leads to more laughter and teasing. At the end of it, they clean up in faintly uncomfortable silence, uncertain now what to do with themselves. How does one proceed after such things? Mercutio cannot say, nor, he sees, can Romeo. They watch one another carefully, speechless, the amusement fading and the enormity of what they have just done setting in at last. Mercutio is the first to puncture the quiet.

"Now you are a man," he says, the beginnings of a smirk testing the corners of his mouth. Romeo ducks his head, blushing, and shrugs.

"And so are you. Well. I suppose you didn't need me for that, but..." The words are not what Mercutio expects to hear, but delight warms his cheeks anyway, and he replies by settling his head upon Romeo's shoulder. "Was it – alright? For you? I didn't hurt you at all?"

"Sweet Romeo, you could not harm me if you wished it. It was indeed more than alright. Could you not see it with your own eyes?"

"Well, you see, I mostly had them closed." The joke is given with a grin of such open happiness that Mercutio feels the remnants of his own uncertainty dissolve. He shoves Romeo playfully, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Romeo rears back up, launching himself at Mercutio, and they fall to wrestling, heedless of their nakedness or, indeed, much of anything else.

\- - - -

In the subsequent weeks, Mercutio and Romeo are careful not to think too deeply on their shared afternoon. Each of them knows that it was an act of friendship, not a prelude to any sort of tryst, and while it's strange at first, neither regrets having done it. Later in the summer, Romeo falls for a girl named Catalina. She is, Mercutio must admit, rather comely, with amber eyes and a head of inky black curls which tumble over her shoulders and bounce when she laughs. Mercutio himself is uninterested, but to hear Romeo speak of her, he feels a faint twinge of jealousy at the thought of them together as Romeo and he had once been together. A foolish thought, and one he casts aside before it can hope to take root. In any case, though she giggles and blushes at Romeo's overtures, Catalina ultimately rejects them: she is already promised to someone, she admits with what may be regret, and it is left to Mercutio to comfort his friend through the pain of rejection. A pain Mercutio himself knows too well, and wishes he didn't.

(If, the next afternoon, Romeo notices the way Mercutio's gaze follows Tybalt Capulet as he crosses the piazza, he has the good grace not to mention it. Mercutio never speaks of it, but he understands more than Mercutio thinks.)

 


End file.
